Murder after Morning Coffee
by Nymphadora-CullenBAU
Summary: Becuase of 1 odd circumstance, Spencer Reid is given a high-profile case & is expected to solve it alone. Things only get worse when he realizes that the Killer may be one of the most dangerous he's ever encountered, even by BAU standards! droogdog's 1st.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hello Reader! I'm Nymphadora-CullenBAU (as I guess you can tell). I adopted this story from the awesome droogdog, who was very happy to give it to me. If you were an avid reader before, please don't be shy about reading, and leaving a review! Also, please be sure to check out my other stories!**_

_**Originally written by droogdog. It's his idea; I'm just finishing it.**_

_**Nothing is mine; all CBS. **_

**

"_Almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those whom we cannot resemble_" Samuel Johnson

**

-Quantico Virginia-

The conference room in which the talented team of B.A.U. agents were briefed on new cases was empty, this was a paradoxical mix of the good and the bad. Good, because it meant the team was somewhere out in the world fighting evil. Bad, because it meant that there was still evil in the world. The team worked tirelessly to catch the worlds most dangerous criminals, in fact, the team had just lifted off the ground to Kansas City in search of a Unsub dubbed, 'The Kansas Campus Killer'. The Unsub has been connected to at least twenty deaths, and the team had dedicated their hearts and souls to apprehend this monstrosity, well… most of them anyway. You see, today, Dr. Spencer Reid was late for work.

It's a funny story: it started the last night, when Reid felt it was so very important to re-organize his case files and what-not and lost track of the time. When he finished, he realized it was one in the morning, far past the good doctors bed time, but it was worth it. His small corner of office space was now nice and neat… o.k. neater. With this in mind, one could understand why he slept through his alarm clock. And why he had to make a side trip to Starbucks for an iced coffee. Then make a U-turn for a second. Spencer needs his morning… ummm, _afternoon_ coffee!

So it was a jittery Dr. Reid that came in at 2:00 P.M. and the first thing he noticed was the utter absence of an angry Hotch. After that, he noticed that the other B.A.U. members were also gone, without a trace. Why is there a tumble weed in an F.B.I. building? Warily, Reid reached into his pocket for his cell phone, he took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and called Garcia. She answered immediately.

"Tsk tsk," Reid heard, "I am so disappointed in you young man, this calls for punishment!"

"I overslept!" said Reid on his own behalf, "Did I miss the jet?"

"Yeah… 'bout that, someone wants to talk to you."

"Oh, no," said Reid, "Please, I'll-" but it was to late, Garcia had already connected him to another line. As Reid waited for Hotch to answer, he passed the time by watching his life pass be for his eyes. There's the time he got a big red fire truck for his birthday… there's the time he helped catch a serial killer, and there's the first time he kissed a girl! Last week was a good week for Dr. Reid.

"Reid? Are you there?" Spencer heard from his cell, and the powers that be must be merciful, for it was Rossi on the other end.

"My hero." whispered Reid.

"What?" asked a perplexed Rossi.

"Oh, it's nothing, I just thought it'd be Hotch to pick up" explained Reid with sigh of relief.

"Well he right here, you want me to put him on?"

"NOOOOO!" wailed Reid, eliciting sadistic laughter from Rossi.

"Don't worry, Reid," said Rossi, "You won't have to worry about Hotch until we get back to Quantico, but don't think he's letting you have a vacation." This confused Reid.

"What do you mean?" he asked, sensing imminent danger.

"Garcia will explain it to you. Good luck, kid." And before Reid could question any further, Rossi clicked his phone off. Reid waited patiently for the resident computer-goddess while whistling a tune.

"Hey there, long legs! Miss me?" Garcia chirped.

"Uhh, yeah." He said uneasily, Anything sexual always made him uncomfortable, hopefully 'Long legs, would be a lasting nickname.

"Well, while you were snoozing, J.J. brought in two cases, we thought we'd have to do them one at a time, but Hotch devised a clever idea!"

"I think I know where you're going with this." Reid said, not liking where this was going.

"Hotch figured that while the others took care of this Kansas baddie, you could handle the New York case yourself."

"New York?!" Reid choked out, in a compound of fear and shock.

"Yep! The big apple! Hotch said something about keeping you on your toes, and, um, that he has confidence in you sporto!"

"Sporto?" parroted Reid, "He actually used that word?"

"I punched it up some." Replied Garcia, "All the information you need is in the file on the conference desk, Buh Bye handsome!" and CLICK! Dr. Spencer Reid was left alone in the conference room with a cell phone to his ear.

Spencer Reid let out a fretful sigh and gently closed his cell phone shut before putting it in his pocket. He eyed the pale green folder on the desk cautiously before picking it up and flipping it open. The is Unsub was based in New York, New York, and is suspected in the murders of at least five young men, all were Caucasian, with short blonde hair, the Unsub was apparently fond of ligature strangulation. Then Reid noticed something that made his stomach churn: a plane ticket, coach seating.

-New York, New York-

Overlooking the great city that is New York from his penthouse was a young man, no older then twenty-three. He had pale skin that made his sharp face resemble a marble statue, and he kept his hair neat, short, but fashionable. His hair was naturally dark brown, like dark chocolate, but over the years, little white hairs began to grow here and there. This was a genetic trait inherited from his father, and if his hair continues to grey at the same way it had for his father, then the young man should have a head of thick, snowy hair by thirty.

The young man also inherited a generous trust fund from his father, hence the penthouse. The young man's name was Keith Summers, and over the years he had become bored with what his father's money could buy, which was a lot. Keith, again, grew bored of staring at New York through his window, and returned his attention to the blonde guy he had been torturing since the night before.

The guy, who said his name was Joey, seemed uncomfortable, which I suppose is reasonable for anyone in his position. Keith was trying something new with Joey: He had steel pulleys installed to the penthouse ceiling, so that he could easily heave a full grown man up by tying a noose around said man's neck and let him hang there until he died. That's what Keith did with his first victim. With Joey, Keith had a long, metal rod with a sharp end to it installed into the floor as a 'decoration'. Keith's real intention was far more sinister.

Last night, as Joey lay unconscious, Keith had tied thin, black cables around each arm and waited for them to turn a color that was somewhere between blue and purple. Then, as Joey slowly awoke, he found himself being lifted into the air, by his neck! His first instinct was to groped at the black noose around his neck, the one that was slowly cutting off his air, but he realized, to his horror, that his arms were completely numb save for a throbbing pain whenever he tried to move them.

Keith then tied the other end of the rope down, leaving Joey to fend for himself, ten feet up. Joey kicked as his vision began to blur, and as he did so, he cut his left foot on the long, sharpened pole jutting out of the ground. Joey knew he needed some form of leverage if he wanted air, so he endeared intense pain by stepping into the giant needle with his good foot and pushing himself up, and loosening the noose. It was as he took in this fresh air that he realized what kind of situation he was in: He would have to stay balanced on the tortuous staff or else gravity would choke him to death. A similar idea was put into use in medieval times, only then they tied you up by your thumbs.

And so, several, agonizing hours later, Joey looked down at the grey devil below him, and eloquently said: "Fuck You." And allowed himself to slip off the needle, the noose tightened around his neck. Before everything went black, Joey saw Keith shrug, and turn away.

**

**

_A/N: Hi_

_For the new readers, welcome!_

_For the original readers, welcome back!_

_Keep checking in; this is gonna be GOOD!_

_*~N_CBAU~*_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello again! I'm back; I finished my last class about 2 hours and 40 minutes ago.**_

_**Again, just a recap for those of you who are wondering, I adopted this story from droogdog, who was unable to continue it. This is the last chapter he published, so after this it'll be all my writing. I just hope I'm even half as good as he was, 'cause this is some excellent writing!**_

_**The idea is droogdog's, the characters are CBS; I'm just playing with them for the moment, and I promise to put them back when done.**_

"_Evil has to exist along with good, in order that moral choice may operate"_ –Anthony Burgess.

**

**

-A couple thousand feet in the air-

-4:55 P.M.-

Dr. Spencer Reid looked to his left: the ridiculously overweight man in a jogging suit was sleeping, as was the elderly woman to his right. Reid had waited for this since he boarded to plane, now he could look through the case file without his neighbors shrieking in terror at the photos included. Reid opened the file and began to review key details, but something –WHACK!- was nagging –WHACK!- Spencer in the back of his mind –WHACK!-. Actually, make that the back of his _seat_.

Reid looked over his seat and to his chagrin, he saw the most sadistic of monsters to be found on a plane, right up there in the leagues of terrorists: An energetic child, with abnormally powerful legs. The genius quickly thought up a solution to this problem. From the case file, Reid took out a particularly violent photo and flashed it at the youth. Problem solved. Spencer slide back into his seat with a triumphant smirk as the child behind him curled up into a ball and began to rock back and forth.

"_To quote Dr. Evil" _thought Reid to himself, _"Mwa ha. Ha ha. Ha ha."_

-New York-

-5:15 P.M.-

At the time Dr. Reid's plane landed at the airport, Keith Summers was stalking local gay bars for the perfect prey. Keith knew it was to early to be on the prowl again, especially since Joey had been killed a little less then a week after the one before him, But Keith _needed_ to do _it_ again. His sexual drive didn't fuel his need, nor did a lust for power. He was just bored, and boredom was a torture he refused to endure.

It was at a particular bar called, _The Bull Pen_, which Keith found the perfect specimen. From the shadows, Keith watched as the somewhat overly masculine blonde tried to pick up some trick, and failing horribly, which was perfect. This way, he'd be more likely to come with Keith, and based on the men the prey was hitting on, Keith was just his type. The marked prey's masculinity was what intrigued Keith, his last victims were for the most part, either extremely feminine in their physical features, or in there personality, they were eager bottoms who _wanted_ to submit to him. But this one… this one would be different, Keith would have to try a different approach in order to get close, and the physical challenge of knocking him out seemed exciting.

After the prey was turned down, again, he glumly swaggered over to the bar. Keith followed as silently as a panther in the jungle. As prey kept his gaze down as he ordered his drink. The bartender dutifully fixed said drink: Rum and coke, and gave it to him with a sympathetic smile.

"On the house" said the bartender, The prey nodded his thanks. Keith sat down next to the prey, and leaned his head down and cocked it to the side, trying to get a better look at the prey's downcast face. This made Keith appear smaller then the mark, and by association: submissive. He also tried his best to look interested, that part wasn't so hard. The Prey was the first to speak:

"Hello there!" he said, now filled with hope, "Can I buy you a drink?" Keith blushed and looked away sheepishly.

"I don't think I should," said Keith quietly, though somewhat huskily, "I don't normally drink, I can't really hold my liquor" So modest, so innocent, so sweet. And the award goes to… Keith Summers! In his mind, Keith walked on stage and accepted the golden cleaver from the host, Ted Bundy. _"Well first off, I got thank my main man down stairs…"_

"My name's Alex," the prey said as he looked Keith over. He noticed how Keith's hair was a mix of dark brown and white, mostly white, and he wore a nice, un-tucked white dress shirt with faded blue jeans. All of Keith's clothes were tailored to fit his physique perfectly.

"I'm Johnny" Keith lied, "I just moved here from Maine"

"What are you doing here?" asked Alex with interest, though not in the subject matter, per say. "It's dangerous to be in such a big city you're not used to."

"Well, maybe you could protect me." Offered Keith, knowing full well that he was in control of this situation, and Alex's life.

"Where you stayin'?" Alex asked with a confident grin. Keith thought about the pros and cons between drugging him with a syringe, and just taking a blunt object to the prey's head. Keith opted for the blunt object, it would be fun to try.

"I have this penthouse where I entertain all my friends."

-NYPD building-

The thing about New York policemen is that they have this well deserved reputation for being tough, and being intimidating, even the women.

"_Wait a minute,"_ thought Dr. Reid as he walked to the Homicide Unit, _"That was a woman?"_

After shaking off the fear that tough cops, or tough anybodies gave him, he continued on his way to meet Lieutenant Marshal Hutchins of Homicide. It was Lieutenant Hutchins who made a request to the B.A.U. which was of much annoyance to the other detectives in the unit, they seemed to have something against the government, which Reid seemed to represent as an FBI agent.

Lt. Hutchins was a tall man with broad shoulders who talked with a deep voice that resonated authority. He was a man, much respected in the police force, and Reid couldn't help but look up to him, both figuratively and literally. When Reid entered the work space, he asked a detective where Lt. Hutchins was. The detective pointed across the room and said: "The big guy". Reid walked up to the giant, who was staring at a board on which information of the crimes were put up.

"Hello," said Reid nervously to the lieutenants back, who turned around smoothly, "I'm-"

"Ah! You must be the agent the B.A.U. sent!" said Hutchins, offering a hand "It's nice to meet you. Lieutenant Marshal Hutchins."

"Dr. Spencer Reid," He said, more confident now, "Is this all the information?" gesturing at the board.

"Yeah, The higher ups didn't want to say there was a psycho killer out there" Hutchins said in contempt, "They Kept saying that the M.O. was different, and Serial killers never change their M.O. Everyone's a god damned profiler. No offence."

"None taken," Reid assured the Lieutenant, "You're right, Some serial killers don't even have an M.O., Gary Taylor started beating women in the head with a wrench, he then changed to various other methods, rifles, a machete, and after an instance when he posed as an FBI agent to kidnap a victim, he began raping women, but letting them live."

"The first two victims," said Hutchins, trying to focus on the case, "Were just strangled, based on bruising patterns; the M.E. concluded that they were hung, like with a noose." He then pointed to a picture of what Reid assumed was a human body. "The third had rope burns around each wrist, and based on how evenly the bruises around his body were, we think he was strung up by the wrist, allowing the perp these good shots at all sides of the body. He died of internal hemorrhaging." The third victims body looked like he had been beaten with a lead pipe, purple bruises covered most of his body.

"The fourth, had rope burns on his wrists and ankles. The water in his lungs makes me suspect water torture." said Hutchins before moving on to the latest victim. "And finally, the fifth, He was hung, like the first two, only a toxicology report showed that he died of an overdose"

"Overdose?" questioned Reid, "On what?"

"Coke, crack, heroin, and a bunch of other drug with much longer names. M.E. said he was probably flailing around like a fish when he died." Explained the Lieutenant, "But, and this is why we called the feds in, victim number five was displayed in public, and a playground."

"How so? Was he just dumped?" asked Reid.

"No, it's the damnedest this you've ever saw," Hutchins said, though Reid doubted it, "The playground had this big, square jungle gym, looks kinda like a cage. The guy used close to a thousand feet of rope to tie this guy up in the jungle gym, and I'm not saying that that he tied the victim to the side in a shoe knot. He fucking _displayed_ the poor sap. It was like he was a fly in a spider web, he was tied up in the center so that in looked like he was standing. His arms were held out like he was Christ or something and all those knots used to keep him anchored, they were all decorative and festive. Guy likes his fucking knots. This is weird 'cause the others were just dumped in dumpsters. Like Garbage."

Reid looked at the pictures of the victims and asked: "Do you have a victimology?"

"A what?" asked Hutchins.

"A profile of the victims common characteristics."

"Ahh, sure, sure." Said Hutchins as he picked up a small file from the closest desk, "Let's see… All the vic's were white men, ages 20 through 28. All blonde with short hair, and open gays except for one, who was bisexual. All were last seen either at a gay joint, or heading there."

"Gay joint?"

"Yeah, gay bars, dance clubs, bath houses, ect. Here are the time they were last seen." Said Hutchins as he handed Reid the file. "Is there anything in else you need for your profile?"

Reid looked over the Times in which the victims were last seen:

Victim 1- about 1:25 A.M. August 2

Victim 2- about 2:30 P.M. September 5

Victim 3- about 7:45 P.M. September 28

Victim 4- about 12:00 P.M. October 10

Victim 5- about 10:00 A.M. October 18

"I think I have a pretty good idea already," said Reid, "I just need a few minutes to work on it."

Suddenly, a nearby Detective slammed down the phone he was just talking into with enough force to gather the attention of the entire Unit.

"Lieutenant!" said the young detective urgently and he rushed up to said lieutenant. "They found another one."

"Another what?" asked the Lieutenant, although he already knew the answer,

"A body sir, in a garbage bin, it's _him_."

-New York, Alleyway-

The victim, number six so far, was Joseph Mills. He fit the victim profile: short blonde hair, gay, young, handsome. Spencer Reid and Marshal Hutchins peered into the dumpster in which Joey was stuffed, neither grimaced because one was far to experienced, and the other had seen worse.

"There's ligature marks around his neck," Reid pointed out, "He was hung"

"What do you make of this?" asked Hutchins as he pointed to the discolored arms that were still tied off with black cords.

"The Unsub probably did that as a form of torture, and in a practical light, it would numb his arms, making it close to impossible to fight back."

"There are puncture wounds on his feet" observed Hutchins, "What kind of torture is that?"

"An effective one," said Reid, remembering his encounter with a certain religious fanatic with multiple personalities, "There are a lot of nerves in the bottoms of the feet, perfect for torture. But it doesn't really look like he was stabbed, more like he stepped on something sharp."

"Are you ready with your profile?" asked Hutchins.

"Yeah, I think I am." said Reid, thinking that the date was October 25. The Unsub was escalating.

-NYPD Homicide Unit-

Dr. Reid stood before the group of expecting Homicide detectives and officers with a feeling akin to stage fright. Sure he had done this before, but now he was alone. No one there to hold his hand, no one to patt him on the back. No one to but him a coffee because he 'forgot' his wallet back at Quantico.

"Uh," Reid said, elegantly, "The Unsub, that unknown subject, that we're looking for is a classic sociopath, common character traits for a sociopath include charm, and a disregard for another person's rights, they will simply throw a person away when they are done with them, We've seen the Unsub exhibit this behavior, he can charm his victims in a public setting, then throw them out with the trash when he's done. We can also assume that he's handsome because these men were willing to go with him"

"Thanks, Now can you tell us if he's a Sagittarius? A young cop joked, eliciting a few laughs and a glare from Hutchins.

"I'd have to guess that he's a Leo," said Reid, immediately silencing the laughter, "One of the most common Stressors that push a serial killer to kill is anxiety involved with an upcoming birthday." The young cop slouched low in his chair, and Reid's confidence climbed up.

"Now the fact that all of the victims were hung up, in one way or another, is important, because this shows that the Unsub is well enough financed to afford a private residence with a high ceiling, and sound proof walls. And equally important: The times and dates of the victim's disappearances, the times of day are scatter shot, there is no discernable pattern, which means that he has a job with flexible working hours, or maybe he doesn't work at all and is supported by a wealthy family member or significant other.

"And Finally," said Spencer, "expect more bodies, this Unsub is displaying a behavior we call 'escalation'. The time between kills is becoming less and less. There will probably be another victim within a week." Suddenly, a hand shot up, the young detective who received the call earlier. Detective Morgan.

"Why is he doing this?" he asked. Reid thought about it, the way the first two seemed simple, like dipping ones toes into a pool, then after them, our Unsub began to experiment, trying out new and more inventive methods, but why? What need is he fulfilling?

"Dr. Reid?"

"Because he was bored"

**

**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Sorry it's been a while; had a bit of writer's block with this one. But fear not; I have become un-blocked! Hahaha! …Strangely enough, I have had no caffeine today.**_

_**I don't own anything except the shoes mention in this chapter! Enjoy!**_

**MaMC…MaMC…MaMC…**

_Trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly and they will show themselves great. _–Ralph Waldo Emerson

**-NYPD-**

**-9:30 AM-**

Two days had passed, and there was still no hide or hair of their UnSub. Garcia had checked back with Reid numerous times; he'd asked her to search all sorts of different parameters – anti-gay activists, angry bouncers, patrons, bartenders and managers, people who were unemployed, self-employed – nothing. Not a blip on the radar.

To make matters worse, they had discovered another body; Alexander Jackson, 23, had been discovered in the garbage of a fancy Italian restaurant near Chinatown. He had been covered in bits of fettuccini alfredo and penne pasta, but the ligature marks had been consistent with the previous victims.

What was more interesting was that on the way back to the car, Reid had stopped into a store to buy two bright yellow pairs of Converse that were advertising the world-famous New York City taxi cabs. When Detective Morgan had asked him what they were for, Reid had admitted that one pair, the size sevens, were a gift, but wouldn't say anything else to the man. The next morning, he appeared in the NYPD main building, the size eleven yellow Converse on his feet, exposing his socks, one of which was a matching yellow color, complete with little taxis zooming around them. The other was strictly green, with a white argyle pattern along the sides of Reid's ankles.

As he walked into the Homicide department, Reid's phone began to sound the _Doctor Who_ theme tune, followed by the sound the TARDIS made when traveling. "What have you got, Garcia?" Reid asked.

"A name, an address, and a victim who just disappeared," Garcia chirruped. "Also, Reid, before I tell you anything, I just wanted to say that there's someone who just arrived in New York…."

"Actually, two someone's," a woman's voice sounded from behind. Reid closed his phone and turned to find two familiar figures.

"Elle? Oh my- Elle! It's great to see you!" Reid cried, running to the speaker.

"Hey, Reid," Elle replied smoothly. "I've been wanting to see you for a while now. How are things at the BAU?"

"Great, Elle. They're great." Reid answered. "JJs a mom now. She has a son. Henry. He's a sweet boy."

"I always knew JJ would snag some guy," Elle chuckled. "And Morgan?"

"He's great," Reid replied.

"What about Hotch? How's he?"

"He's good, as far as I can tell." Reid admitted. Then he turned to Elle's companion, and felt his stomach fall down to his knees.

"Gideon?" Reid gasped, confused and surprised.

**-Keith Summer's Penthouse-**

Keith sat atop the roof of his abode, sipping a cup of Columbian Dark Roast, his preferred morning beverage. The sun was rising over the city, and a line of clouds overhead caught the fresh rays, spilling a blast of dazzling color over the city.

Keith smiled; it was his kind of morning, almost perfect for taking a walk along Literacy Way in Central Park, or taking a ferry to the Statue of Liberty to mingle with the tourists. Of course…

The wind teased his gray hair as he descended from the roof to the main part of his penthouse to the young blonde man currently hanging from Keith's torture device. The boy's name was Jake, and despite his slight size and small disposition, he was a strong fighter. Jake glared at Keith with the hatred one usually reserved for an unfavored politician, or the storybook or movie villain everyone loved to hate.

"You know," Keith said in a pleasant manner, "You could just give up."

Jake snarled. "Never!" he hissed. "I will not bend to your will!"

"Like they won't pass Prop 8 in California?" Keith mocked.

"They'll pass it," Jake reproved. "And then I will laugh at you from the Heavens, while you burn in Hell."

Keith smirked.

"Bring it on."

**-NYPD Homicide Department-**

**-Office of Detective Brad Morgan-**

**-10:45 AM-**

"What are you doing here, Jason?"

The question was out of Spencer's mouth before he could stop it. But he had to know.

"I had to come back," Gideon replied simply. "I wanted to help."

"Help?" Reid asked, his voice constricted with emotion. "You had PLENTY of chances to come back and _help!_ Countless cases, countless UnSubs… Did you know that Hotch and Hailey divorced shortly after you left? And Hailey's dead; George Foyet, the Boston Reaper… He killed her."

"I heard," Gideon replied. "I couldn't believe it. I felt bad for leaving, and I admit that it was wrong for me to disappear like that-"

"You left me a note!" Reid cried. "A note saying you couldn't do it anymore! Just like my father before you. And I… I couldn't understand why! I've forgiven you a long time ago, just like I've finally confronted and forgiven my father, but to see you here, asking to _help _me… You've got some nerve, Gideon. At least my father told me the truth when it was all over; at least he tried to make up for it after I saw him."

"I know," Gideon replied. "I know, I know-"

"No, you don't," Reid said. "We trusted you. And you left. I forgive you for leaving, and I forgive you for coming back and re-opening the wound. But I don't know what the others will think, if they will forgive you."

"They don't have to forgive me," Gideon said. "And they don't have to know about this. I just want to help. After this case, I can go, and you'll never hear from me again if you wish.

There was a pause, where the younger profiler through this over. Then, he nodded.

"I can live with that."

A second later, the _Doctor Who_ theme rang through the small office, and Reid grabbed his phone to quickly answer it.

"Go ahead, Garcia."

"So I checked the camera feed from this club called _The Bullpen,_ and saw this gray haired guy approach Alexander, and then leave with him some minutes. He looked at the camera for only a second, but I caught him. Just the side of his face, but fear not, my Magic Man. I found him."

"Do you have a name?"

There was the sound of computer keys.

"Keith Summers. He lives in a penthouse in Upper Manhattan, by Central Park."

"Got it. Thanks, Garcia."

"My pleasure, Baby Boy!"

**MaMC…MaMC…MaMC…**

_A/N: Review, please!_

_And vote for a story I have entered in The-Vampire-Act's current contest about our ladies. Mine is called "Dear Mick," and is kinda lonely._

_And, if you're a fan of my Reid/OC series, please review the newest story, "When the Dawn Breaks."_

_Please?_

_*~N_CBAU~*_


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